User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Nine Masks for Mother Ashna (Part 8)
Alright, second to last part here. Part 8 A boy ran through the maze, the very personification of death on his heels. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jean.” Anaric kept calling. “I just need that mask.” Jean said nothing, breath coming in gasps, not from exertion, but from fear. Enter Twice - Exit Only Once His hand ran along the right side of the stone wall as he tried to keep track of where he was going. He pretended he hadn’t gotten lost an hour ago, lost in a maze of stone corridors an Anaric’s echoing voice. Enter Twice - Exit Only Once “The mask, Jean, come on, make this easy on both of us.” Shalidor’s maze. The proving ground for Archmages. Complete it all, complete the Trial of Conjuration at the end, and receive the Diadem of the Savant and, by extension, your right as the most accomplished mage in Tamriel. His fingers brushed something, an irregularity in the wall. Jean stepped back and inspected it with a frown. It was a symbol of some sort. Why did he recognize it? The sigil for the School of Alteration. He realized. His tutors had taught him of it. What did that mean, though? Alteration will lead you to Destruction. It sounded dangerous then. Should he use it? He glanced back the way he had come, where Anaric was, carrying his blood dagger. He didn’t want to think about the blood. He didn’t have a choice. Jean reached out a tentative hand, and cast Magelight, one of the few spells he knew, onto the sigil. Immediately there was a click. A gate, to his left, lowered, revealing another section of the maze. The Magelight clung to wall, and Anaric called out: “Jean? Have you lighten a torch?” The Breton cursed. Of course Anaric had seen the light. He hurried through the new gap, shoes scuffing the stone floor. As he ran down the corridor he passed by a shutter in the wall, that could be pulled open or closed. He could pull it open, to mark his path… No. That would lead Anaric right to me. He left the shutter closed and hurried past. Minutes later, footsteps echoed down to him. Anaric must’ve found the open gate. He couldn’t afford to get lost. If he went down the wrong corridor, it could mean Anaric cornering him. Jean came to a screeching stop as his hand passed another inscription. A symbol of a burning fire. Alteration will lead you to Destruction. The statement wasn’t symbolic. It was literal. He read the scrap of paper tightly grasped in his left head once again. Enter Twice - Exit Only Once. Alteration will lead you to Destruction. Only Illusion shows the way to Restoration. Conjure not, but be conjured instead. That meant Restoration was next. He didn’t have a Destruction spell, but he did have a block of ice. There were plenty of blocks of ice lying around. He kicked the ice, fused where the wall met the ground, until a large chunk of it came free. He hefted it, testing its weight, and he could feel its bitter coldness through his gloves. Then, with all his might, he chucked it at the Destruction seal, the block of ice trailing powder behind it. The block hit. There was a click from the seal. The ground opened beneath him. Jean involuntarily cried out as he fell. The fall was sort, but his feet were yanked out from beneath him, and he landed violently on his back, knocking his head on the floor. His vision swam, and he lost clarity for a moment. He finally regained control of his limbs and sat up. He glanced around, and noticed a Conjuration seal on the wall to his left, a dead end, although the corridor to his right extended out. Only Illusion shows the way to Restoration. Why wasn’t Conjuration mentioned next, but last? Should he leave it alone? “Jean? Jean is that you down there?” He froze, then looked up. Anaric was standing above the trap door Jean had fallen through, looking down at him. The locked eyes. The Altmer grinned. Jean scrambled to his feet and took off at a dash, almost tripping, but keeping balance. He sprinted the entire way down the corridor. He came into a circular stairwell, charged down one flight of it, then hit a dead end. What was- The stairwell began to shake, and then spin down along it’s point of origin, until it touched down with a shake, revealing an opening where the dead end used to be. Jean dashed out and paused. He was back at the entrance of the maze, an antechamber of sorts, it’s only decoration being five staves hovering in a semi-circle above a circle black-slate platform. He’d seen them when he had first entered, but hadn’t touched them, not knowing what they were for. All four were still there, Anaric hadn’t touched any. He dashed forward, grabbing the staves for Illusion and Restoration without much hesitation, and then hurrying back into the maze. He wasn’t sure way, but he didn’t think he was back at the real entrance, besides, the doorway was located at a different spot, near a Nordic word wall. Enter Twice - Exit Only Once. This was his second entrance—he hadn’t exited yet—and he still had to activate Illusion and Restoration sigils. Back into the corridors, he quickly encountered a gate with the sigil for Illusion on it, and lowered it with a brief blast from his staff. Tossing the Illusion staff aside, he ran forward now with both hands gripping the one for Restoration. More turns, more passes of shutters. He came to the sigil for Restoration, and noticed the layout, complete with trap door, was the exact same as it had been for the destruction sigil. Stepping to the side to avoid a repeat of last time, he casted the staff onto the Restoration sigil. The trapdoor swung open and, with a wide smile, Jean climbed down, staff in his hands. The room below was dark and it’s only light was a large portal that hung in the air, it was shimmering and ephemeral, bluish in color, and shaped as an orb. For some reason, he knew he should approach it, and step through it, but was hesitant. Maybe… There was the sound of someone dropping down behind him. He whirled around to face Anaric, dagger in hand, and baring down on Jean with a wicked smile. “Give me my mask!” The Altmer roared, charging towards Jean and driving his dagger down at the boy. Jean cried out, lifting his staff up, a hand gripping each end, holding the length of wood horizontally. It caught Anaric’s arm at the elbow, causing it to bounce off. Jean stepped back, terrified but ready to defend himself, and received a boot in the stomach from Anaric. He was knocked off his feet, sent reeling backwards, and fell through the portal. He hit the ground in a new area. The… “Prepare yourself for the Trial of Conjuration.” A voice gargled behind him. Jean looked up, titling his head back from his position on the ground, to see a Dremora and a pair of flame Atronachs standing not too far away. His eyes gradually grew wider as he struggled to his feet, and the Dremora watched passively. How was he supposed to fight these things? Luckily, he didn’t have to come up with a likely futile plan. Anaric exited the portal behind Jean. The Dremora hissed. “Defiler! Only one may complete the Trials!” The Dremora charged Anaric and its two Atronachs unloaded flames on the Altmer, causing the elf to jump aside with a shout, quickly moving for cover. Jean didn’t stick around to watch. The Trial was still in the maze, and he bet he could find an exit. Circling around one of the side walls, he approached the back of the arena, and found, someone, he was at the back of the maze, on the opposite side of the Labyrinthian. Jean strolled out, and threw his staff aside. He stood in the middle of a slight stairwell, which likely lead somewhere out of the Labyrinthian. Jean, however, needed to find his father. Heading up the stairs, he circled around the maze to the north, planning to come towards the Sanctuary from the opposite direction they had arrived at it from. He was still coming down from the fear and Adrenaline he had felt running through the maze. His hands shook, and he realized now that his breath was coming in gasps. How had all that happened in such a short time? Dremora, traps, Anaric with his dagger. Gods, Jean had almost died. He looked over as he passed around, back at the front of the maze now, the rounded hut of the Sanctuary in sight. The darkness within the entrance into the maze’s tall, walled antechamber flicked. Jean paused mid-step. Anaric, a wound in his right side, a burn on his left shoulder, stepped out, limping slightly. His left hand was cupped over the wound, but his right arm seemed to work fine, and it was clenching the dagger. “You little shit!” The Altmer hissed, trudging towards Jean. From the very expensive looking circlet on Anaric’s head, likely the Diadem of the Savant, Jean guessed he had completed the Trial of Conjuration, and been teleported back to the start somehow. “Just… give. Me. That. Mask.” Jean stumbled back, wondering if he could plead with Anaric somehow, tell him that he needed it to heal his mother, that she would die without its powers. He doubted that the Altmer would care. Jean turned to run, boot leaving the ground, and Anaric shouted behind him. The Altmer dove, catching the ankle of Jean’s trousers. The reaction was immediately Jean tripped forwards, landing on his face with a smack and resounding crunk. He felt his nose practically fall to pieces, the bone and carticle smashed to mush, blood gushing from it. He opened his mouth to cry out, but that filled with blood as well, running down his face and pooling in his throat. He vomited a mucus-blood mix as the vile solution was immediately rejected by his stomach. Anaric groaned as he shambled to his feet, the leg that had been dragging now hung uselessly, and the wound at his side was splattered with blood. He seized Jean by the front of his shirt, and lifted him from the ground. If Jean had been any more conscious, he would’ve remarked on his strong Anaric was. Jean’s world was awash with pain. He barely saw Anaric, didn’t see the hideous eyes alight with murder. “I’m going to kill you.” The elf said, voice cold. “I’m going to kill you and take that mask. But first I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you until I enjoy myself.” Jean groaned as Anaric brought the dagger to his throat and, in flash recognition in what was about to happen, he kicked out, driving the toe of his boot into Anaric’s crotch. The Altmer hissed in pain, nearly losing his balance, and with boiling fury and exasperation, drove the dagger into Jean’s chest. He gasped, eyes widened as the metal blade pierced his body, sinking in halfway up the blade, bones crunching. Anaric grinned, twisting it, churning up blood and muscles, and then tossed Jean down the path of stairs that lead up to the maze. He hit the ground in a heap and tumbled down the stairs, limp as a rag, blood splattering as he did so. When he landed at the bottom, finally still, on his side, he didn’t move. He mask had come free from the sash on his side, and lay next to his hand. He reached out, arm weak, and touched it. Anaric was climbed down the stairs, towards Jean. He was grinning. Jean curled his fingers around the mask, and lifted it. His muscles strained, as if the mask was the heaviest thing in the world, and it slowly made its way to his face. He put it on, and the cowl descended over the back of his head. The world grew dim, and Jean’s pain faded. A voice boomed in his head. Commanding. Powerful. You are not the one I summoned. The voice spoke, to which Jean did not answer. Was it talking to him? He couldn’t be sure. He hurt. He hurt bad, as Anaric had promised, but the pain seemed distant now. You are of his blood, but you are not him. Jean said nothing still. He was dying. He could feel it. He would bleed out here on these stones, his body would die, and his soul would leave this world. I will not bind myself to a weak host. Please. Jean spoke back suddenly, just as the speaker finished. Jean was vaguely aware of who he was speaking to—the mask itself. Please. Give me power, your power, and I will not be weak. He didn’t know why he said it, but it seemed like the right thing to say. If you do not, the one who will bind you is not someone you will want to serve.'' '' Jean continued. I have earned this. I assembled Hevnoraak, Krosis, Morokei, Nahkriin, Otar, Rahgot, Vokun, Volsung and brought them to you. I am not weak. I am worthy. The voice was silent for a moment. Very well. This mask is your’s, Warlord. Reality came rushing back all at once and Jean inhaled sharply, drawing in air—he had stopped breathing, had been at the edge of death. A rush of energy, of absolute ecstasy filled him, and he felt wounds close all over his body, his nose shift back into shape like time had be wound back in a millisecond. He sat up, yanked the knife from his chest like it was a splinter, and watched as the wound shut, the blood flow trickling off to nothing. Anaric froze mid-step, grin vanishing, as he met Jean’s eyes through the holes of the mask. It gave Jean a detached, emotionless look, one he embraced as he rose to his feet. Under the weight of that masked gaze, Anaric took a step back. “Protect me.” Jean whispered to the mask. There was a rush of wind as something took shape in the air and figure surged forth from Jean, a figure made of pure ephemeral light, hovering above the ground. A Dragon Priest. Anaric’s face dissolved into an expression of pure horror as the Priest floated over the ground at an unmatchable speed. Twin beams of lightning formed in each of its hands, first crackling into the ground on either side of it, before it raised them towards Anaric. The rays of energy struck the Altmer up and down and he screamed as his clothes were torn away, burns covering his body, flesh roasted to ash. The Priest didn’t cease its attack until the Thalmor was burned to cinder, and was no more, blown into the wind. Then, as quickly as it had come, the Priest too seemed to dissipate with the breeze. Jean exhaled slowly, having held the first breath he had drawn. He didn’t feel the same shock he had felt after leaving the maze. He just felt… relieved. It was over. ---- Dacian looked up as footsteps approached the chamber. He tensed, expecting the worst. He was on his side, half sitting, supporting himself by one elbow, and nursing his wound with his other hand. A masked figure appeared in the doorway, but it was too short to be an Altmer. “Jean?” Dacian asked, shocked. “It’s a little upsetting, papa, for you to believe I had died.” Jean said. The mask didn’t muffle his voice at all. In fact, Dacian heard him quite crisply through it. “I didn’t-” Dacian began, totally off his guard. “It’s alright.” Jean said, an eiry calmness in his voice. “I was kidding.” He approached Dacian, and knelt by him. “You’re hurt.” Dacian nodded grimly. “Yeah. We fought, and he was much more successful than I.” “Here.” Jean said, reaching up to pull the mask from his face. He mumbled something, as if he was speaking to himself—or perhaps the mask—before pulling it from his head, the cowl falling away. His face was sparkling clean, which Dacian found odd given the chase he must’ve just had. “Anaric, is he-?” “Dead.” Jean answered simply, voice neutral. “Put this on.” He said, handing Dacian the mask. Dacian settled it onto his face, and felt the familiar warmth of a magic healing, felt his side knitting closed. Once the wound had healed, Jean took the mask back, and stuck it back over his head. “How?” Dacian asked. “He underestimated me.” Jean said with a light smile. “Most do.” I won’t. Dacian thought.'' Not ever again''. “Why are you wearing the mask?” Dacian asked. “It’s a long story. A deep story. I’ll tell you it all the ride home. We are headed home, right?” Dacian nodded, rising to his feet, marveling at the lack of pain. It had been decades since he’d been wounded that bad, further decades since he’d ever needed to heal a wound. “We are indeed.” “That’s well enough. I think I’ve had enough of Skyrim to last a life time.” Dacian grunted his agreement. “You and me both, son.” Category:Blog posts